Ideal
by varietyofwords
Summary: Linstead. Oneshot. Post-4x23. "Do you remember me telling you about that couple? The ones that lived in separate houses, but were together for like, forty-two years?"


**Author's Note:** I probably watched one too many romantic dramas this weekend, but I was trying to make myself feel better after the announcement about Sophia's departure. To me, the best case scenario we can hope for after 4x23 (and given Sophia may be coming back for a few episodes in S5) is a follow-up to Erin and Jay's conversation in 4x21 about ideal living situations so this is what I came up with.

* * *

She will never get used to the hustle and bustle of this city - the constant honking of car horns, the way people push past each other on crowded sidewalks without the apology that comes with Midwestern nicety, the thin crust pizza being hawked by the slice at the same cart selling skinny hot dogs that don't deserve to be called sausage or bratwurst, the turf wars amongst precincts over which borough they serve, or the tunnel vision the highrises create making it is impossible to see city landmarks.

That last change was - _is_ \- probably the hardest to adapt to because it used to be she walk down the back steps of the District or swing by Firehouse 51 or chase down a suspect and be able to see Sears Tower standing up straight. Offering orientation as she floored the 300 or the Sierra or as she hopped over a fence in a foot chase. Now? Now she orients herself by the number of blocks to the FBI's headquarters, by the coffee shops and hole in the way restaurants that Lieutenant Benson pointed out to her the night she arrived in New York City with Hank's admonishment not to look back still ringing in her ears.

Advice Hank himself hadn't followed given that Benson was waiting for her at baggage claim, that the first person she saw upon arrival was someone from her past. It had been Benson who helped her find a place - one that was smaller than her condo in Chicago and without the floor to ceiling windows or the fireplace, but in a neighborhood that didn't feel quite so sterile or gentrified as the place the FBI set her up with. It had been Benson who took her out to the coffee shop around the corner from her new apartment and offered her a position in her own unit. Offered to open up doors for her at the NYPD that would let her out of a life spent in starched, white blouses and pantsuits.

But she had to pass, had to take Hank's advice that she not look back because she couldn't imagine facing the kind of monsters like Yates every single day. Couldn't handle the mental mindfuck that would come every time a woman was brutalized that way Nadia had been. And she had to keep the deal she made five months ago. Five months, eleven days, and six hours ago.

So much for not looking back.

"What can I get started for you, ma'am?" The questions startles her slightly as she had been mindlessly moving forward in line at the coffee shop. It is the same coffee shop that Benson had taken her to about two months after she arrived in the city, after it became obvious that the homesickness for Chicago wasn't abating with time.

The same, but different because it has been more crowded now, more inundated with tourists and the yuppies who bought the overpriced condos built on top of the hotel down the block. And now the barista moves down the line asking for orders before the customer can reach the cash register and pay.

"Can I get a large, black coffee and, uh, a large latte?" Erin questions glancing from the barista's smiling face to the board and back again when she sees the milk options listed on the righthand side. "Almond milk for the latte."

"Ok, I've got a large, black coffee and a large latte with almond milk. Anything else?" The barista questions nodding her head in reply when Erin replies in the negative as she scribbles the order on a paper cup. "Can I get an name for the order."

"Lindsay?"

The callout of her last name comes not from Erin but from a voice - a male voice - further in front of her in the line, and both Erin and the barista turn to spot the speaker standing in front of the cash register. To see a redhead wearing a suit craning his head around the line to stare at her, to offer her a small, hesitant smile. And she offers him one in return as she tells the barista that Lindsay is the name for the order.

"Here you go, sir," another barista interrupts handing a coffee cup to the redhead. The grin on her face, the way she giggles over his charm causes Erin to roll her eyes because it appears that nothing has changed in the five months since she's been gone. That the eldest Halstead hasn't lost the charm that always got him in trouble, that always meant she had to listen to the youngest Halstead rail about how his brother needed to get his act together. Needed to focus on his career in New York and, then, in Chicago; needed to choose Nina or Natalie.

But he doesn't really offer her that boyish, charming grin as he moves to join her in line, as the two of them awkwardly dance around the question of whether or not they should hug because that's what they used to do. Quick hugs and/or warm smiles at Molly's when he'd join them for a drink after work or at their place - _her_ place - when the game would end and they weren't so subtle about telling him that it was time to go.

Now, though, they skip the hug, and she finds herself curling her wrists upward so she can tug on the sleeves of her starched blouse under her black jacket. So she can silently address the discomfort she feels as he explains that he didn't expect to run into her here, as she wonders how much he knows about what's transpired in the five months since she last saw Will Halstead.

The lanyard around his neck announcing his name and his hospital affiliation explains why he's in New York rather than at work in Chicago, but Erin asks about the conference anyways. Listens to him explain that Goodwin has either started to trust him, or she just wants a week where he isn't around to give her more grey hairs.

The laughter Erin offers in reply clearly isn't the answer that Will was going for because the smile on his face doesn't reach his eyes. Because he's still staring at her with the stoic impression that Erin is convinced is hereditary as she inquires how everyone else at Med is doing while handing over a waded up twenty to the barista working the cash register. Because his eyes flash with anger when one of the four baristas working today interrupts the exchange of change and the exchange of niceties to hand her two coffees.

The flash of anger dissipates, though, as his gaze darts from to the two coffees in her hand to her face, and the anger is replaced with resigned sadness so quickly that Erin doesn't have time to really register what he's thinking. To say anything in her own defense as he mumbles about it being good to see her before turning away and striding towards the door. To even say his name before he's turned back around and moved towards her, before his proximity and his gaze makes it feel like they are the only two in the coffee shop.

"He was gonna propose to you. Told me that he knew he blew it, but that you were all he thought about. Had me get Mom's ring out of the safety deposit box cause you were the right girl," Will informs her, and the knowledge causes her to stumble backwards a bit. To lose her footing on the high heels that she's never really enjoyed wearing because it is too difficult to stand up right after such a blow. "And you - you really hurt him, Erin."

Despite all the years she spent learning how to suppress her emotions, how to make sure no one ever saw her weaknesses, the tears still spring to her eyes. Leave her vision a cloudy mess and a lump in her throat so she can't find her voice when Will tries to explain that he doesn't mean to hurt her. That he just wants her to know how much his brother cared - _cares_ \- about her.

Except she does know. Knew with every look and touch; knew with the five missed calls on the night she left and the smattering of texts after that. And she manages to find her voice not to tell Will that, not to tell Will that Jay is all she thinks about, but to wish him luck with his conference and make a break for the door.

Her visions is still cloudy as she makes her way down the crowded sidewalk towards her apartment, and the coffee cups slosh in her hands as people bump into her left and right. But the lump in her throat has grown and her heart is racing too much to take on the New Yorker tactic of scowling, to do anything other than focus on getting to her apartment.

Apartment not home. Because this is New York not Chicago. Because this is where she's biding her time rather than living her life. Because it is hard to move forward when you're still looking back at your past.

It takes some maneuvering with the coffee cups to open the front door of her building - almond milk latte spilling on the stoop on her building - and then to unlock the front door of her apartment. Takes further maneuvering around the half-unpacked boxes stacked in the hallway and the living room to find her past looking back at her from the closet-sized kitchen.

To find her past wearing sweatpants hung low on his hips and bare back muscles flexing as he runs the spatula across the frying pan, as he announces that he couldn't find the waffle maker in any of the boxes labeled kitchen so scrambled eggs will have to do.

"You were going to propose?" The question comes out more strangled and weaker sounding than she meant it to be, and the tone clearly catches him off guard because his head snaps around so he can stare at her. So she can see those bright eyes dim with a tiny bit of sadness as he nods his head eyes.

"You were going to propose," she repeats again. This time the question is more of a statement. This time he reaches to turn off the stove, moves the skillet off the burner, and spins around to face her. To rub his fingers against the hairline along his forehead and refuse to meet her gaze as he verbally confirms what he had planned to do five months, ten days, and roughly twelve and a half hours ago.

"You were going to propose, and I just left," Erin says as though he needs the reminder of what exactly happened that night. Of waiting for her at Molly's with the ring box in his pocket; of calling her repeatedly and driving by the apartment they used to share wondering where she was. Of dragging himself into work the next morning hoping to see her sitting at her desk and being told by Voight that she was working with the FBI. Effectively immediately.

"And you came back," he interjects because maybe she needs the reminder of what happened three months ago. Of sitting at Molly's staring at his fourth drink of the night wondering if he should finally let himself fall over the edge; of ignoring the sound of the door opening and shutting behind him because the rest of the unit wasn't really into drinking with a guy who wouldn't even try to be the life of the party. Of hearing a 'hey' in her voice beside him and wondering if he'd lost count of his drinks already until he felt her hand on his bicep.

They had ended up back at his place, at the apartment he officially shared with Will but unofficially had to himself because his brother spent all his time with Natalie. They ended up with her pantsuit on his floor and her nail marks on his back and not a lot of words spoken between them in the next three hours. The touches and kisses and caresses saying what they both felt even when they were in between rounds. And then, in the morning, he took her out to breakfast at her favorite diner, let her steal bites of his egg white omelete to balance out the unhealthiness of her double stack of pancakes, and asked if she was back.

She wasn't. And it had nearly killed her to see the way his face fell, to see the mask she thought he was trying to break down fall back in place as she explained that she was in town just for the night. That she had to get back to New York. That she wanted to stay so badly; that she felt her resolve to leave weakening with every passing moment.

She hadn't said the last part, but she had texted him as soon as she landed in New York. Texted him multiple times a day. Texted him so much that he'd stopped replying for a few hours and then come back with an excuse that his new partner, Al, had become annoyed with all the texting. Had taken away his phone and locked it in the glove compartment of that police-issued car he wasn't allowed to drive. And then texts had become calls. Short chats on the nights they both worked late and could barely keep their eyes open; lengthy ones on the days when she found herself looking up one way flights to Chicago.

So much for not looking back.

And, apparently, he had been doing the same during those phone calls because he's standing in her kitchen cooking her scrambled eggs and she's buying him a latte with almond milk. His ticket is round trip; Chicago is still his - _their_ \- home. But he's here to drown her in kisses at night and mock her pantsuit in the morning and, apparently, there was a time when he was going to propose.

"Are you still plan-" She forces the question to die on her lips because she doesn't want to know. What they're doing right now - the showing up on each other's doorsteps, the sneaking around dad's back - is complicated and confusing and undefined enough as it is without throwing the ultimate definition of a relationship out there. Without asking him to tell her if she's wrecked things enough that he's no longer considering asking her; without asking her to tell him if he's blew it so badly that she no longer wants to be asked.

"Do you remember me telling you about that couple? The ones that lived in separate houses, but were together for like, forty-two years?"

She remembers, of course. Remembers wondering where exactly he was going with that story when he first told it to her and then wondering how they went from him asking her to move in together to him telling her the ideal situation was him coming over for dinner and sex and then going back to his own place to sleep and work on the motorcycle she wasn't - _isn't_ \- thrilled about him wanting. Remembers him correcting her and saying that it wasn't ideal.

"I'd rather have that with you then nothing at all," he informs her and she finds herself shaking her head. Reminding him that they live in separate states rather than houses across the road from one another.

"Yeah," he agrees folding his arms across his chest and leaning back against the counter. His stare is unwavering much like his posture as he continues, "it's not ideal. But unless you're ready to stop protecting Bunny and come home-"

"Jay," she warns with the shake her head because they've had this agreement. Over text. Over the phone. And she doesn't want to rehash it all over again when he's standing in front of her and, according to his brother, may or may not have a ring in his pocket.

"So," he interjects with a sigh of frustration, "separate houses, separate states sounds like the best option right now cause, Erin, not being with you is far less ideal than cramming myself into those tiny seats on Spirit for a two hour flight."

There's a long, pregnant pause where she mulls it over. Where she wonders how they went from living together to being apart to him planning to propose to now contemplating long distance for foreseeable future. And then she finds herself nodding her head, offering him a whispered okay that she knows he heard because he breaks out in a wide, boyish, and charming grin. One that makes his brother's seem small in comparison. One that she sort of emulates - dimples appearing - as he crosses the room, as he pulls the coffee cups from her hands and places them on the table by the couch, as he plants a kiss on her lips and mumbles how he loves her.

Because, yeah, living in New York isn't ideal. Being an agent with the FBI rather than a detective with the Chicago Police Department isn't ideal. But the last five months and the weeks before that have shown her that not being with him also isn't ideal. And that's one thing that she can change right now, can let herself keep from her past even as she sacrifices for another portion of it.

"Do me one thing," she murmurs when the second - or, maybe third - kiss breaks, and she feels him pull away slightly from her. Watches her run her hand against his chest before tipping her head up to look at him, to offer him a stern look that clashes with the dimples she can't make disappear. "Don't propose to me. Not yet, anyways. I don't want it to be a rushed thing, okay?"

His gaze softens at the comment, and she knows it's because a part of him sees it as a dig, as a pointed comment about his past and how he made it to the altar the first time around. And there's a part of her that means it that way. That can't stand the idea of him ever describing them as a joke or a twenty-four hour thing or of their relationship being cobbled together in panic the way their decision to move in together last year maybe was.

"You know that I support you one hundred percent, right?" Jay asks, and the comment causes Erin's brow to furrow because, of course, she knows that. Has known that since their first ride along as partners, since he put on a suit and went to her high school reunion with her, since he waited for her to tell him about her past, since he pulled her back onto the force when she was falling down a hole, since he held her together when her world was falling apart, since he offered advice and support even when she didn't want. And when she tells him that, of course, she knows, he nods his head and says, "Then I can wait to propose when it's more ideal."


End file.
